Musings of a reading addict

Keywords: South Korean culture, womanhood, asian literature, women’s mental health

Genre: Literary fiction

Length: short medium long

Country: South Korea

Review

“The world had changed a great deal, but the little rules, contracts and customs had not, which meant the world hadn’t actually changed at all.”

I went into Kim Ji-young, Born 1982 almost completely blind. I knew it was everywhere a while back—one of those books everyone and their cat was reading—which usually makes me avoid it. Hype tends to put me off, and nine times out of ten, I end up disappointed. This was one of the rare exceptions.

The novel starts with Kim Ji-young as an adult, recently a mother, behaving in ways that worry her family. This sets up the core of the book: a dive into her life story, from childhood to adulthood, showing how she became who she is. That’s where the book shines. Cho Nam-joo elegantly shows us the small, constant cuts that women experience—microaggressions, biases, social expectations—without melodrama, without manipulation, just with a steady, calm voice.

We see her parents’ desperation for a son, the offhand comments about “maybe next time you’ll have a boy,” the abortion of a girl pregnancy, the difference in how sons and daughters are raised. The girls are taught to help around the house, to take care of themselves, to be capable. The son? He doesn’t need to be capable. His very existence is praised as an achievement. At one point, when the family is doing well, they’re praised for having two daughters who are thriving academically and socially — and for having a son, as though his presence alone completes the family’s success story. That’s the contrast: the girls have to perform and excel to be celebrated; the boy just has to exist.

This is what the book does so well: it shows how this unequal system not only burdens girls with having to prove they’re “worthy” but also produces men who are unprepared for the real world and yet hold the most social value.

“He’s still a baby.” “No, he’s not! I’ve been taking care of Jiyoung’s bags, school supplies, and homework since I was ten. When we were his age, we mopped the floor, hung laundry, and made ramen and fried eggs for ourselves.” “He’s the youngest.” “You mean he’s the son!”

We also follow Kim Ji-young through school, work, relationships—some supportive, some uncomfortable, some outright frightening. One scene stuck with me: a man follows her and accuses her of flirting because she supposedly looked a certain way when handing out papers. The absurdity of that accusation says it all. As one quote puts it, it was the girl’s duty to avoid dangerous places, dangerous times, dangerous people—and her fault if she didn’t. The burden of staying safe is placed entirely on women, while society excuses the danger itself.

“Jiyoung grew up being told to be cautious, to dress conservatively, to be “ladylike.” That it’s your job to avoid dangerous places, times of day and people. It’s your fault for not noticing and not avoiding.”

Cho Nam-joo mixes real statistics and sociological data into the narrative, which makes it hit harder. It’s not just Kim Ji-young’s story—it’s a collective story, a mirror held up to society. And importantly, the book doesn’t push you to adopt a particular stance; it presents you with facts and a life, and lets you sit with them.

“While offenders were in fear of losing a small part of their privilege, the victims were running the risk of losing everything.”

Despite being such a short book, it covers a wide span of topics—family, education, marriage, work, motherhood—without ever feeling overwhelming. The writing is deceptively simple, which makes it even more powerful.

I’m glad I finally read it, and I can see why it became such a phenomenon. It deserves the attention it got. I’m now curious to check out Cho Nam-joo’s other works, like Miss Kim Knows and Other Stories and Saha.